


Talismans

by killabeez



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Episode Related, Episode Tag, Episode: s02e02 Everybody Loves a Clown, Gen, Season/Series 02
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-12-12
Updated: 2006-12-12
Packaged: 2017-10-03 19:33:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 964
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21480
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/killabeez/pseuds/killabeez
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>With everything he's lost, such a small thing shouldn't matter.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Talismans

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the lovely poisontaster's birthday. Still not betaed, sadly.

Sam made one when he was sixteen, out of some dumb leather cord that came off of a hat.

The hat was Dean's—they were working a job in Texas, ranch country, and Dad said they should blend in. The first time he put the hat on, Sam laughed himself into hiccups; Dean threw the thing away as soon as they were done, and didn't give it a second thought.

The bracelet showed up on Sam's wrist a couple days later. He never said a word about it—it was just there one day, and he never took it off. Dad raised an eyebrow over it, but for whatever reason, let it go without comment. A month or so after that, when they were passing through Wyoming and stopped at a general store to gas up, Dean made himself two just like it, and nobody said anything then, either. It could have meant nothing at all, and if it did mean something, it didn't need to be said out loud. They were Winchesters.

When Dean came to get Sam at school after two years of no contact and more than three years of not seeing him up close, and he saw that Sam was wearing a plain black jelly bracelet on the same wrist, it went a long way toward making Dean okay.

They took Dean's bracelets in the hospital. They kept his amulet because it looked like something of value, but the bracelets were just plain knotted leather, nothing anyone would care about. They'd probably cut them off without a thought. Who wouldn't?

In his worst moments, he thinks it's fitting, it's just how he feels—like he's lost both of them, not just Dad. He can't have Sam beside him working on the car because having Sam beside him when he can't talk to him hurts worse than being alone—he can't look at Sam without thinking, _I'm lying to him. Everything we've been through and I'm lying to him with every minute I don't say anything._ And when Sam's around, Dean sees how much he's hurting him. Seeing that makes him want to throw up, and there's nothing he can do to fix it.

Sam comes out to the yard late one afternoon, when they've been there almost a week. He's brought Dean a Slurpee, cherry and coke flavor mixed together, melting into cool slush in the sun. Sam's will be blue, or lime green. He always picked by color.

It's like being kicked in the gut, is what it's like, but the look on Sam's face is worse, and Dean just does not have it in him to deal out the kind of damage it would take to make him go away. There's no easy out for a Slurpee—someone brings you one on a hot afternoon, where do you go with that? You drink it, that's all. You lean on the car next to your brother and you drink it. Dean gives himself the worst brain freeze headache he's ever had, and holds on to the pain because it's all he's got holding him together.

They lean on the car in the sun, a measured two feet of space between them, as much as Sam will give him. It's more than they're used to, and it feels wrong, awkward, but Dean's grateful for it anyway. Sam's boots are dusty, like everything else; it hasn't rained here in months, Bobby said. It seems to fit—Dean's chest feels dry and tight just like the ground, and he's breathed so much dust in the last week he thinks he'll be coughing it up for a year.

It's when they're almost done, straws making sucking noises on the bottoms of their cups, that his eyes fall on Sam's wrist, the narrow black strip resting against his tanned, dusty skin. His gaze rests there only a handful of seconds before he makes himself look away, and Sam's not even looking at him, but he's too attuned to Dean these days, like he's trying to sense changes in Dean's body chemistry or some shit, and it's like he can feel Dean's eyes on his skin any time he looks at him.

"I can take it off, if you want," he says in a low voice, touching the bracelet, turning it on his wrist the way Dean's seen him do a thousand times.

"No," Dean says before he can stop himself. "Don't."

He feels Sam looking at him then, knows too well what he'd see if he looked at his brother—the raw, open concern, the hope. He pushes himself away from the car and throws the paper cup in a rusting barrel, not looking at Sam as he picks up Bobby's air wrench, gets back under the car.

"I'll see you back at the house, then," Sam says, his boots and the frayed cuffs of his jeans the only thing Dean can see.

"Yeah, man," Dean says, his hand tightening on the wrench handle against the trembling he can't quite suppress. He closes his eyes, and feels the pressure of Sam's need for him like a weight on his chest. "Thanks," he says gruffly, at last.

It's the best he can do, and it isn't enough, not even close—but Sam takes it, accepts it. Dean can hear him clear his throat softly, and then the scraping sound of his footsteps, leaving. Reprieve.

Dean hates himself a little for the thought, but that's nothing new.

* * *

Eventually, when they're on the road, Dean makes himself two new ones—a little more elaborate, this time, talismans recognizable only to someone who does what they do. Protection, warding, and one for luck. He thinks they could use it.

He wears one, and puts the other one away.


End file.
